


Buffer Memory

by vetiverbitters



Series: The Saint and the Dragon [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bard and Thranduil play quid pro quo, Cats, Chatting & Messaging, Interlude, M/M, Model!Thranduil, More Haldir and Thranduil interaction, Otp: Barrel of Laughs, Photographer!Bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverbitters/pseuds/vetiverbitters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Buffer memory: The temporary holding area for image data waiting to be processed.</i> An interlude, stemming from the events of Exposure.</p><p>Our brave heroes cope with the morning after the siege begins. Thranduil sulks, Haldir always knows best, and the cats are alive. Bard rues his blue balls, wills his phone to ring, plans his atonement on his way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buffer Memory

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Thranduil's idea of lounging clothes](http://www.elvisblog.net/Auction/March%202011%20Gotta%20Have%20It/Kaftan.jpg).  
> 2\. This is what I listen to for inspiration when I write this series, so I'm just gonna leave the link to it [here](http://8tracks.com/vetiverbitters/dragon-saint), in case anyone ever feels remotely interested.

"Oi, petit prince."

First, the sliver of sound pierced through the veil of unconsciousness, then came the weight of something soft but heavy falling over his face. Grunting, Thranduil batted off the bundle of cloth off his head and cracked his eyes open to mere slits. Haldir, blurred but discernible, stood by the door of the bedroom with his arms crossed, leaning against the frame. "Put that on before you frighten the staff, yes? And get up, brunch is here."

"I could have company under the covers, you know." Thranduil's retort, heavy and drowsy, rasped in his throat. He rubbed the last tendrils of sleep from his eyes and stifled a yawn, tucking stray locks of hair behind his ears. The blond allowed himself a langurous stretch of his entire body before sitting up and slipping his arms through the wide, soft sleeves of the embroidered kaftan Haldir had thrown in his direction. Haldir's raised eyebrow only made his smirk more damnably smug. 

"Unless you picked up someone else whilst Bard was downstairs downing beers waiting for a cab, I really doubt that." 

"What?" Thranduil frowned as he quickly flicked the golden buttons through the embroidered holes with the ease of practice, porcelain eyes trained on Haldir's own shrewd grey ones. The smirk softened into a neutral expression Thranduil had come to associate with his agent weighing how much of a thing to say and how to go about it. It was something about Haldir the model appreciated most days, but it was too soon after waking to play at riddles regarding Bard. 

"I went down to the front desk around midnight and saw him at the bar," the agent began, but paused to watch Thranduil shuffle into the bathroom; he did not follow the model there. The sound of the sink running followed that of the toilet flushing. Haldir absently turned the silver band on his finger and waited for his chosen audience to return.

"Feel free to continue some time this age," Thranduil called from the bathroom and Haldir shook his head, chuckling softly to himself. He resumed as soon as the model left the bathroom and rejoined him by the door of the bedroom. Together they watched the hotel staff flitter about the living area of the suite, setting up a small buffet of fruits, vegetables and breads on the dining table by the balcony.

"He said you had asked him to see the photos."

"So I did." If Haldir wanted to play at pulling teeth, so be it. Last night's frustration still lingered in his system, eager to flare up once more at the mere mention of Bard's name. He ignored the itch to go retrieve his phone from wherever it had landed last night.

"I'm getting the preliminary edits later on this afternoon." Thranduil could feel Haldir's attention squarely on him, but did not address the loaded statement. So what if he'd lured Bard in under the most bullshit of pretenses? The photographer hadn't cared; he'd shown up anyway. Thranduil sauntered out toward the set table and picked at a pineapple chunk, popping the juicy morsel between his lips. On a scale of one to plumber-housewife roleplay porn, there had to be worse ways to invite someone over than his own transparent ones.

"Good for you, Haldir."

There were empty flutes sitting, tall and dainty, on the white linen of the tablecloth, flanked by white porcelain bowls of cut figs, strawberries and other fruits. The remaining staff boy handed Haldir a chilling bucket on his way out, for which the agent thanked him and promptly brought to the table and set it in the middle of it. Giving credit where due, no one did elaborate like the other man. It was probably best not to wonder how much of the day he'd spent hassling the hotel concierge to put this together, as amusing as the thought might be.

"Bellinis?" The taller blond stifled a laugh with the back of his hand as he took the seat facing toward the view of the rooftops and streets beyond, drinking in the tenuous warmth of the winter sun filtering through the sheer curtains. "Nice touch disguising your inquisition as brunch, by the way." Ever the master of concealing motives, Haldir, and sometimes he didn't even try. "Very subtle."

"Yes, and before you rudely question my attention to detail regarding your dietary parameters, the puree isn't from a can," Haldir rolled his eyes and sat down across from Thranduil, with his back to the balcony, pulling his linen napkin off the table and down onto his lap. "So why was your dragon slayer down at _our_ hotel bar by himself looking so uncomfortable? I braved the cold to find peaches, so the least you can do is tell me." 

"Not until I've had, at least, one of these," Thranduil glared half-heartedly and reached for the jar of peach puree inside the bucket. A generous spoonful of the fruit went inside his flute, followed by the slow pour of prosecco mixing into the bright yellow mush. Thranduil repeated the sequence with Haldir's flute, pointedly avoiding the agent's amused and piercing gaze. "Just one? I was prepared to wait until the fourth or fifth, but by all means, carry on," Haldir's guffaw tapered off to a chuckle as he piled grapes, figs, and thin slices of rye toast onto his plate, reaching for a drizzle of agave over his food. Thranduil let out an audible sigh and sipped his drink instead, savoring the cold bubbles bursting on his tongue and leaving the ghost of sweetness behind. It didn't quite coat his mouth like the Macallan had the previous night, but maybe it was better that it didn't -- not with the other blond watching his every move. Excusing himself to go find his phone would only get him more looks and questions, so he decided against it, despite the itch of wanting to check the messages.

"I could keep you on the edge of your seat until I've had the whole bottle," Thranduil shrugged as he spread a dollop of some heavenly-smelling tomato dip onto a piece of toast, fixing Haldir with a condescending smile, "but then you'll just whine about your herculean efforts to bring me peaches in the dead of winter, and I don't want to hear it."

" _Quel connard_." It was Haldir's turn to roll his eyes and for Thranduil to chuckle around a mouthful of roasted tomatoes, garlic, and finely chopped basil. 

"You woke me up after a night of very little sleep. I don't know what you were expecting, if not this." Thranduil would have laughed at the abrupt change of Haldir's facial expressions, if that frown-turned-curious wasn't a clear prelude to pointed questions.

"He said you were sleeping when I asked where you were. Did something happen?"

How could Thranduil possibly begin to answer that question -- yes, no, both, neither? Damn Bard, damn him.

The model groaned and reached for his flute, downing the chilled wine in three long, painful gulps that left his teeth oversensitive and his head thumping. "I had him where I wanted him," he groused bitterly as he speared an olive with his fork more forcefully than necessary, "and he bloody stopped and told me to go to sleep."

Haldir's side-splitting, hysterical cackle was neither surprising nor really appreciated. "He did wh-- I don't know if that was brave or stupid of him..."

 "He wants to know me, he said." Thranduil's second Bellini did little to soothe the hot wave of embarrassment. "He was knowing me just fine with his fucking tongue in my mouth, but he got all saint-like on me and sent me to bed like a bloody child! Who the hell does that?!" Still laughing, Haldir poured out Thranduil's third round in sympathy. "Some _couilles_  your saint's got. Guess that explains the nasty love bite on his neck and that pitiful look he had about him at the bar."

"Should've bitten his head off instead," the model muttered between bites of a strawberry. "Praying mantises have the right idea, seriously." The grape between his fingers, Thranduil decided, served a better purpose as a projectile deterrent to Haldir's convulsive peals of laughter. The bastard picked it up off his lap and ate it seconds after it bounced off his chest.

"Stop laughing, you oaf! Now I have to wait until we get back to see him again and push him down a flight of stairs." 

"Ah, yes, he  _does_ live in our neck of the woods," Haldir drawled on pensively, sipping from his own forgotten flute, drawing deep breaths to keep from devolving into howling again. "So you've already made plans with him?"

"I told him I expected atonement when I got back, so I suppose you could call that a plan in loose terms."

"No one does romantic quite like you, do they, Thran?" Thranduil shrugged into the start of his fourth Bellini, then chased the sip with a bite of toast.

"Have you heard from Yaya today?" the model asked, in hopes for a change of topic. Quick to pull his mobile from his pants pocket, Haldir keyed in his password and opened up the photo gallery, then held out his phone to Thranduil. "She sends her love and today's proof of life."

Gimli's large head looked massive, with long tufts of ginger fur sticking out of the collar of the tiny jumper he was stuffed in. His face looked as confused as it did surly, with bulging eyes and his sunken nose. "Hell, Yaya, _why_..." Thranduil sputtered and slapped a hand over his mouth, failing to swallow back the laugh that slipped between his fingers. "He's already hideous, he doesn't need any help there." The next five files featured Galion grooming Haldir and Yaya's Rumil and Orophin, a video of Gimli failing to escape the confines of the jumper, and a shot of Yaya's slender brown hand scratching the top of Gimli's head.

"Every day, you say the same thing about the poor creature. If I were Legolas, I would have decked you by now."

"Facts are facts, Haldir -- not calling him that doesn't make him any less ghastly to look at. Even my brother can't deny that."

* * *

 _ **[from Thranduil; 00:02] I'm vegan. I hate dogs. I'm naked right now. I hope your boner is paining you. I will only drink beer if it's German. I'm holding your cap hostage until you've atoned sufficiently. I'm half-Swedish.** _ **  
**

The relief that had flooded his chest upon receiving that message had loosened the brunet's death grip on the beer bottle. Over and over, Bard had read the text message, devouring the crumbs of knowledge Thranduil had left for him. The model's vindictive addendum about his nakedness had tugged at the persistent ache in his gut, but it also drew a shaky laugh from lips pressed to the rim of the bottle. He could have been upstairs bollocks deep in the blond beauty, wrapped in the maddening sounds of his voice, slick with his sweat and his cries, but when the sheets got cool, emptiness stung less when there were little facts and memories to hold on to. There was so much heat, so many stories bubbling under Thranduil's layers of aloofness... Did he blush when he was embarrassed? Did he read every single line of a food label? Did he like reading? What _did_ he read? Why did he hate dogs? As much as he longed to hold Thranduil down and  _feast,_ the photographer remained unable to shake the unnerving feeling that he ought to wait. As to whether it was prudent or better, there was no telling, but there it was, holding fast and steady in a storm of wanting.

**[to Thranduil; 00:10] how long have you been vegan? why do you hate dogs? what's with german beer? swedish mum or dad? i really like that hat, please don't hurt her. she's innocent.**

Between the barely concealed embarrassment of having lied to Thranduil's gracious agent, the hard-on that refused to dissipate, and the lack of a reply from the model, sleep eluded him for the first four hours after getting back to his room at the Esgaroth. Distractedy, Bard had gathered his belongings and packed them up instead, then taken to aimlessly channel-surfing on the telly to pass the time, keeping well away from his phone sitting on the bedside table, but very much on the lookout for any sounds. He had exchanged a couple of text messages with Percy around three; the edits were done, and would be sent off for the next step pending Bard's review.  **  
**

**[to Percy W.; 03:24] just send them off, mate. i trust you, they barely needed any editing anyway. thanks a lot!**

No bloody way he was going to look at those edits just when his libido was starting to ebb. He could trust Percy's work, he'd done so for years; himself, currently, not so much. He'd been avoiding the urge to take himself in hand to relieve the pressure, but there was no guarantee he wouldn't revisit the furtive, Pierce Brosnan-fueled wanks of his teenage years if he opened the Mirkwood files. After setting an alarm, Bard crawled under the covers and sighed tiredly into the pillow, plugging his phone into the charger and pushing it onto the nightstand like it had offended him. 4:16 A.M. and he was still awake, awaiting a reply from Thranduil. The messages showed as delivered, but not yet read. That was to be expected, given the hour, but that hadn't stopped Bard from wishing for a reply. Between five and eight, Bard tossed and turned at the edge of unconsciousness, occasionally raising a heavy head to get a drowsy look at the hour and finding there was still time to sink into an uneasy limbo. The alarm went off with a shrill beep at half past nine, but the brunet remained nestled under the covers until the protests of his stomach drove him to get up around 9:40. Still no reply.

Three fourths into his airport cup of coffee over two hours later, Bard's mobile buzzed on the table, startling him out of the newspaper article he'd been skimming. A ripple of warmth settled in his stomach as he opened the new message.

**[from Thranduil; 12:03] Vegetarian since childhood; vegan in late teens. Dogs are needy and they smell. Alcohol preference related to diet. Swedish heritage is paternal. Where in London do you live?**

The picture message that arrived soon after the text turned the ripple into a satisfying, possessive lurch. His hat looked damned good on Thranduil's golden head, creating a stark contrast of black wool and fair skin that Bard longed to reach out and touch -- from his smooth cheek to the high forehead, to his lips, and the subtle shadows under his eyes. And there was his neck again, flanked by the flow of soft, pale locks over the model's bare chest. Bard saved the picture and closed the file, at the risk of his pants tightening in public for the second time in less than 24 hours. Oh, what he was going to do to that mouth and that throat when the time came...

**[12:08] do you like theatre? how good is your swedish? let's go somewhere sat. weather's gonna hold (unlike here). i live in covent garden, you?**

**[12:08] and wear the hat. you look almost as good in it as i do ;)**

Between messages, Bard browsed through search engine results on his mac, bookmarking vegan-friendly restaurant reviews with zeal. Who knew there was so much to the vegan stuff? Flight announcements floated overhead, filling his surroundings with noise, and yet it was the rush of his blood steadily thumping that filled his ears with sound. The corners of the photographer's mouth continued their upward crawl as the minutes slipped by, accompanied by the occasional clatter of laptop keys and the brush of fingers on the touchpad, scrolling through showtimes and synopses. What _was_ Thranduil's idea of fun?

**[12:17] I like theatre, but don't go often. Could be persuaded to go Saturday if there's something good. I live in Primrose Hill. Figures you'd be West End. My Swedish is good, but rusty.**

**[12:18] Additionally, mind your modesty and start answering some questions yourself. Speak Welsh? Like theatre? Last book you read?**

_You knocked the modesty right out of me last night, you posh, bossy heathen._ Travelers sitting nearby began collecting their effects in response to the announcement at the gate: Flight 736 en route to London would begin boarding in the next few minutes. 

**[12:22] a couple of dramas look promising, maybe a comedy. there's also war horse. no one hates war horse. what's wrong with the west end?**

Bard shut down his laptop and stuffed it back in its sleeve, placing it on the seat beside him, along with his rucksack and coat. His thumbs tapped away at a quick reply as his section was called to board the aircraft. With his belongings gathered, the brunet shuffled toward the forming queue by the ticket counter and dove back into Thranduil's latest messages.

**[12:25] my welsh is kind of meh, didn't learn much past the compulsory. i love theatre & go often. last read: susan sontag essays. my flight's boarding now. talk when i land?**

**[12:27] War Horse is not happening. Favorite play? Nothing's wrong with the West End. It suits you. Will quiz you on the essays at a later time.**

A second text arrived before he could reply to the first.

**[12:28] If your flight is Malaysia Airlines, you are NOT to board. You're not allowed to bail a second time.**

Bard's sudden laughter startled the couple ahead of him in the queue, who directed questioning looks at the grinning fool behind them, but Bard was to busy replying to notice or care.

**[12:30] haha, no plans to bail, luv. i want know so much more about you.**

* * *

  _ **i want to know so much more about you.**_

Sweet, sweet, damnable, wicked Bard.

"Goddamnit," the blonde groaned into the mound of down pillows he was nestled in on the bed. Bard's sinful promise echoed in the recesses of Thranduil's mind once more, leaving a trail of raised hairs and gooseflesh under the kaftan. His thighs pressed together, tensing and shifting in remembrance of the other's hips slotted so snugly in their cradle. 

**[12:34] Send a picture once you have arrived safely. A man could use something to light a candle to.**

 Thranduil rolled over in his nest and pitched his mobile toward the foot of the bed once his message sent, then wriggled further into the softness of the warm bed linens. Going back to sleep was rather difficult with a head full of nefarious ideas of retaliation against his handsome saint, but the bottle he'd managed to consume with brunch proved helpful in that regard. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I'm in the process of hashing out the minutiae of Bard and Thranduil's London rendezvous, so that will come soon. I just thought it would be fun to have a little interlude with bits of character conversations and amusing text message exchanges, right before wading into what that date is going to be like. >.>  
> 2\. Quel connard = what an asshole. Couilles = balls, bollocks. Oui oui hon hon baguette and all that.  
> 3\. Gimli the cat is basically the ginger love child of Lil' Bub and Grumpy Cat. Bless his ugly little [face](http://cdn.business2community.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/Cat-In-Christmas-Sweatet-is-not-happy.jpg).  
> 


End file.
